Jess Lourey - October Fest

“You’re going home after the funeral?”

“After the burial. Mom’s family is all laid to rest out here, and this is where she and dad bought their plots. Gruesome, I think, to buy that stuff in advance.”

I shrugged. “One less thing for you to worry about. How’s your dad holding up?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose. You know they were high school sweethearts? They still held hands.”

“I’m sorry.” I sneezed twice and grabbed for a tissue. I felt like I had fiberglass under the skin of my face. “Can I ask you something completely unrelated? What’s your tattoo say?” The curiosity hadn’t been killing me, but it had been sending threatening notes.

She smiled a murmur of a smile. “You saw my tattoo?”

“Yeah. Hard to miss.”

“ Non ducor duco. ”

“What’s it mean?”

“It’s Latin: ‘I am not led; I lead.’”

I sneezed again, but with this one came an oily tingle down my back. There was danger near, something not right. Before I could pinpoint it, I saw movement in the front of Kenya’s shapeless black dress. Both her hands were out where I could see them. “Kenya, did you bring Hammy?”

She giggled quietly and slipped her hand into her pocket, pulling out a brown ball of fuzz. “Don’t tell.”

Suddenly, the world tilted a little. Kenya’s profile was in sharp relief and I could see every pore on her face. I wondered if this is what it felt like to learn you’ve been poisoned, this sudden onset of horrific awareness. I knew who had killed Bob Webber, and it wasn’t Sarah Glokkmann.

Sitting through the funeral service was a trying experience, and I wouldn’t have done it except I had promised, and I knew the killer wasn’t going anywhere. Still, I fidgeted so much next to Kennie that she pinched me hard enough to draw blood. That served to make me crabby on top of the fidgety. The only thing that stilled me was when Grace Swinton entered the church after the priest had begun to speak, selecting a seat at the end of the back row Kennie and I had been relegated to. She was beautifully put together, wearing a crisp green suit that set off her eyes and hair. Her face was drawn and pale, her skin like porcelain. She wrung her hands nervously as she sat but was otherwise motionless.

After the priest’s initial words, Kenya’s dad stood and walked painfully to the podium. He brought out a piece of paper, his hands shaking, but forwent reading it. Instead, he told stories about first setting eyes on his wife in kindergarten and knowing even then that he’d marry her, about her commitment to her community and her faith in God, about how much she loved each of her children and would be looking down on them from Heaven. Two of the children spoke after that, followed by friends and colleagues. The priest asked if anyone else had words they wanted to share, and Grace began to stand before falling heavily into her seat, tears streaming from her eyes. I felt bad for her.

Finally, after some hymns and psalms, the service was over. The priest invited those present to join the family at the burial, immediately followed by dinner in the church basement. I’m ashamed to admit I loved church basement food. Salty turkey slices on buttered white rolls, noodle hotdish, baked beans, orange Jell-O and pineapple salad with carrot strips, potato chips and pickles, red juice, and lemon bars. I’d have to skip this one, though, because I had a murderer to catch.

The rain was still pelting the stained glass of the windows, so I stepped toward the door of the basement rather than follow Kennie out the church. I hated being pressed in a slow-moving crowd, and if I waited, the needle rain might let up. I held a placid smile on my face, idly watching the huge crowd shuffle out the church.

“Mira.”

Turning, I spotted Grace in the shadow of one of the confessionals. I strode over to her. “Are you okay?”

Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. “I was the one who told Webber about Sarah’s ethical breaches. I did it. It was me.”

“I know.”

She wasn’t listening. She’d uncovered this geyser of guilt and couldn’t stop the surge. “It was all true, but I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. I just couldn’t live with myself if I let her get away with taking bribes and drinking herself into the ground. I see you judging me.”

I averted my gaze.

“I’d judge me, too. I can’t stand bribes and alcoholism but don’t have a problem with adultery? I’m not going to make excuses. I loved Arnold, and it was wrong.”

“How is he?”

“Fine. He’s a good man, the best. He decided he couldn’t live with what he’d done, but he doesn’t think that anymore. He’s going to go to counseling.” A sob escaped. “With his wife.”

I reached out to her, but she pulled away. “No, no, this is what I deserve. I need you to know something, though. Sarah Glokkmann was a fighter. She would never kill herself.” She grabbed my upper arm, her fingers like a steel trap. “Listen to me. She didn’t kill herself.”

An icy tongue licked between my shoulder blades. Grace’s words had the ring of truth. This added a layer of urgency to my actions. I gave her a quick hug and darted out a side door of the church, ignoring the sleet and milling crowds to dash to my car.

I knew my case was precarious, so I did my research first, stopping on my way back from the funeral to talk to Darcy and Cindy. They’d stopped by the library twice since I’d introduced them, all blissed out on new love and searching for books on everything from horse grooming to rabbit care. They’d been together all of three days before they were finishing each other’s sentences. On the last visit Cindy had given me her phone number, telling me that she and Darcy wanted to take me out to thank me for bringing them together. I’m surprised I’d hung onto it. Being forced to witness the saccharine glow of new love appealed about as much as licking dirt.

I was glad I had, and as I pulled up to Cindy’s 1970s-era rambler and knocked on her door, I was also grateful that they were around on a Sunday afternoon.

“OK, guys, I have a weird question? Um, guys?” They had greeted me nicely enough and ushered me into the spacious living room but were now staring deeply into each other’s eyes. To make it even worse, Cindy was a doll collector, and had two full China cabinets of glass-faced horrors on each side of the room watching me, noting my weaknesses, moving slowly just out my line of vision.

“Sorry,” Cindy said, blushing. “What’s the question?” Darcy whispered something in her ear and she giggled.

I looked at her in desperation. PDA + doll collection = I needed to get out of this house before my eyes combusted. “I think I’m allergic to gerbils. How would I tell?”

“That’s very…” Darcy said.

“… common,” Cindy finished.

I held up a hand. “One at a time.”

Cindy stepped up to the plate. “Gerbils are similar to cats in that they have a protein in their urine and saliva that people can be allergic to. They clean their fur, the protein gets on the fur, they shed the fur. If you’re sensitive, you might get headaches, itchy eyes, and sneezing.”

I nodded. It was exactly what I’d suspected. “Would it take a whole army of gerbils to set this off, or would one be good enough to do it?”

“Depends how sensitive you are,” Darcy said. “Come on down.”

And they welcomed me into Cindy’s basement, which looked like Noah’s Ark had crashed into Dr. Doolittle’s island. She had one of everything-lizard, bunny, frog, even a disagreeably beady-eyed parakeet. I thought they’d been playing one of those soothing sounds of nature soundtracks when I arrived, but it turned out they had the real deal going on.